In the latest issue:

Loathed by Huysmans

Julian Barnes

Too early or too late?

David Runciman

Short Cuts: Five Victorian Marriages

Tom Crewe

Society as a Broadband Network

William Davies

Fifteen days from now

Thomas Jones

In 1348

James Meek

The Yorkists

John Guy

At the Movies: Pasolini’s ‘Teorema’

Michael Wood

Whitehall Spookery

Neal Ascherson

Poem: ‘The Bannisters’

Paul Muldoon

Clarice Lispector

Rivka Galchen

Marius Petipa

Simon Morrison

At the Foundling Museum: ‘Portraying Pregnancy’

Joanne O’Leary

Gordon v. O’Connor

Rupert Thomson

Revism

Joe Dunthorne

Poem: ‘The Reach of the Sea’

Maureen N. McLane

Diary: Where water used to be

Rosa Lyster

Two PoemsJohn Ashbery
Close
Close

The Goofiad

Um, it wasn’t my project
to prise them apart.
Pale Jessica had come full circle.
Case in point: she spelled one application
under presidential law. How it became
one of the names one can’t recall.

But on the other hand
good old people
watch the convention.
It’s guaranteed,
and not be president.
People had yet to live

and believe your own cameras
which it probably isn’t going to,
picking up the same thing. Premium hype,
it’s off-ladle. While out driving in my car
repeating both of them,
we’ll pull together and,
kind of interesting
that I heard you fix a lot more concentrated …

It was all anybody could do.
The garter store fell through the cracks,
or if there was another way
I didn’t know you were ticklish –
with a little note which said
Sing something subtle and insinuating.
Aunts go to jail.
On the facial committee equipment,
a woman by the name of Lottie Timms.

This is the traditional way not to kiss at all.

A Greeting to My Brothers and Some of My Brothers-in-Law

The chic flatness of memory
takes the arctic brotherhood to task.
Where’d you get it at?
Don’t think of it yet.
Awake in the shadow of the school’s cactus garden
you have all of the handcuffs,
bracelets, whatever,
like the exploding manhole covers of Skopje.

How open was it?
To here a former first lady,
the victims were visited too and
down there for ten days without a punchline.
He’s only got seven kids and none of these are tea drinkers.
Restrictions led the way,
then grunge too passed, leaving a dimpled wake
much prized by amateurs.
What to reoffer? Wow.
Suddenly a giant snowflake pierced the trellis
thirty-five minutes ago, trapped in honey.

So.
You’ve been asleep
because he remembers it.
Now I’m supposed to be here.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Read More

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences